New Beginnings
by Azure Starlight
Summary: The war has left many people with scars; the worst are often the ones we cannot see. Hermione needs a new beginning, and somebody provides her with a lifeline. What happens when the same lifeline can bring about another's salvation?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Many years ago, I wrote under two pen names. However, me being a scatty kind of gal, forgot the password and so I can't actually access that account any more. But I found a couple of my fics the other day on there and decided that actually, they may be worth elaborating on. The spooky thing is, I began this story back in 2001 (when I was seventeen, at college and disillusioned with English Literature coursework) and bizarrely, correctly predicted the destinations of Harry, Ginny and Hermione. With this in mind (and a lovely review from leenyg98) I decided to restart this fic. I intend that it should be DH-compliant, but not necessarily epilogue compliant. In the event that I deviate from the DH storyline, I apologise and hope that you will forgive me the quirk that is human error. Please review; I have had a lay-off from writing and hope to do the plot justice.

**New Beginnings**

A fine mist of rain blew into her face; it was that infuriating kind of rain that soaked one to the skin, despite not looking substantial enough to warrant an umbrella. It was the kind of rain that coerced one's hair into misbehaving and breaking loose of any Smoothing Charm.

But it didn't bother her at this moment in time. She reached inside her pocket and withdrew her wand, tracing it into a circle on the ground. A small wreath appeared, with scarlet, blue and yellow roses entwined into it. She bent down and picked it up; she could smell the sharp tang of resinous pine from the wreath, and to smell it was a comfort, a pleasure that she was grateful for, for the people she came to see today did not have this pleasure.

She looked up from the wreath, her vision obscured not only by the incessant drizzle of the rain, but now tears. It was always the same, and time did not heal the gaping wounds, as many had told her it would, and she wondered when this would stop being painful.

She stepped up to the smooth marble statue, visible to witches and wizards only, and scanned the names etched into it, her breath forming clouds on the damp autumnal air. She traced the letters of each name she recognised, a silent tribute to their sacrifice, her small way of thanking them, for they had all died fighting for the freedom of every witch and wizard.

Colin Creevey. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Fred Weasley.

She laid the wreath at the foot of the statue, and stood up, pressing her lips together, suppressing her grief; grief that was still raw and unrelenting. And yet, she wondered what right she had to feel like this; Dennis had lost a brother. Teddy had lost his parents. Andromeda had lost a daughter. Arthur and Molly had lost a son; George had lost a twin; Ron and Ginny had lost a brother. What had she lost? She made a derisive snort to herself. She was one of the lucky ones. Her parents were still alive. Her two best friends had survived to tell the tale. And here she was, wallowing in self-pity when others had suffered worse. _Pull yourself together_, she told herself sternly.

She turned away from the memorial, a chilly breeze beginning to blow, and it felt like cold hands slapping her face hard, jolting her from her lament. She needed to look forward now; there were things she needed to do, goals she needed to achieve, a life to carry on living. Turning on the spot, she concentrated hard on her destination, and with a faint _pop_, Hermione Granger disappeared into the ether.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers so far, I appreciate your feedback. The italicised introduction is taken from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. More of the story becomes apparent here.

**New Beginnings**

**Chapter 2**

_"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."_

_"My Lord!" Snape protested, raising his wand._

_"It cannot be any other way," said Voldemort. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."_

_And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved: but then Voldemort's intention became clear. The snake's cage was rolling through the air, and before Snape could do anything more than yell, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue._

_"Kill."_

Hermione sat bolt upright, gasping as though she had been running, and as her surroundings swam into bleary-eyed focus, she felt her heartbeat slow, and relief cascaded over her. It was just a dream.

She disentangled her limbs from her bedclothes, damp with perspiration, and got up, crossing to the window. The rays of the sun began to probe gently through the edges of the clouds, bringing the morning. The image of Professor Snape's face, deathly white, his black eyes widening as he had clung to Harry was imprinted upon her mind's eye and nothing she did could erase it from her mind.

Why did she dream of this? Why didn't the images of Colin Creevey's limp body, carried by Neville, appear in her dreams? Why did the peaceful faces of Tonks and Lupin not swim before her eyes, or the wails of misery from Mrs Weasley reverberate around her ears? Was it because Snape had been so misunderstood? Was it because it had been so horrific?

Or was it, was it because she knew she could have done more to help him?

She shivered, but knew it was not from the cold. She wished that she could block out these memories, could forget that they ever happened, but the mediwitch at St Mungo's had refused kindly to perform a Memory Charm.

"If I knew it would be the right thing in the long-term, I would do it," she had said, gently. "But to erase this from your memory would be like picking at a loose thread on a jumper. Erase this, and it will unravel the fabric of your mind. There is no knowing what damage it could do."

She had, however, consented to provide Hermione with Dreamless Sleep in the weeks that followed the war. This had worked to a point, but even Hermione had to concede that suppressing dreams was an unhealthy way of dealing with her memories. So she tolerated her nightly reminiscences, in the hope that time would heal the wounds. For the meantime, however, she was awake, and that was a relief, for she had at least twelve hours of respite from the images that plagued her dreams.

She got up and busied herself with menial tasks; made breakfast, got a shower, washed the dishes, took the rubbish out. She did them all non-magically; she needed something to distract her from her thoughts, to block out the horrors of the night.

Of course, there was something she could do that would stop the dreams. She knew full well what it was, and how easy it would be for her to do, and if she wanted to, she could go right now. But it was only easy in physical terms. Mentally was a different story. But she knew that she couldn't go on like this.

Her mind made up, she strode to the hallway purposefully, lest she should change her mind, and pulled on her coat. Fixing her mind on her destination, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.

She stumbled upon landing as her feet met solid ground; she glanced around. She was standing in a dark alleyway, empty save a couple of dustbins and a tabby cat that eyed the scene malevolently through yellow eyes. People streamed past the alleyway, paying it no attention whatsoever; there was no reason for them to.

She strode onto the main street, commuters jostling her as they passed, and with every step she took, she wondered if she was doing the right thing, but Gryffindor courage kept her feet moving forward, until she reached her destination. She stopped in front of a large window and peered through it, her breath clouding the glass. She could see the figure she wanted to speak to, clad in a green pinafore dress.

"Morning," she whispered, her heart crashing against her chest like jeans in a tumble dryer. "I've come to visit Severus Snape."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers (heartmom88 and sharkeygirl) and indeed, didn't that throw a spanner in the works? It looks as though our favourite Potions Professor is alive...

**New Beginnings**

**Chapter 3**

The reception area of St. Mungo's was exactly how Hermione remembered it; she realised that in fact, the last time she had stood here, it had been to visit Arthur Weasley after his bite from Nagini. Quick thinking from Dumbledore after Harry's vision had saved Arthur; she trembled. They'd nearly been too late for Professor Snape.

But they hadn't, and it had been no thanks to her, really. She had been there; she had watched as Professor Snape had clung to Harry's robes, desperation in his dark eyes as Nagini's venom coursed through his veins, knowing that he was going to die, and she hadn't raised the alarm. She hadn't even shrieked it to the heavens when they had returned to Hogwarts into the fray, and it seemed a sheer miracle that he was still living to tell the tale.

It had been Phineas Nigellus who had come to the rescue; revered by many wizarding families as an honourable man, a portrait of him had once resided in the Shrieking Shack. Again, Hermione smiled slightly at the irony; Phineas had raised the alarm when Arthur had been bitten.

So she stood here now, still not knowing if she was doing the right thing, but courage rooted her feet to the floor, no matter if she wished to flee or not. She needed to speak to him. For her own closure. She stepped closer to the reception desk and the receptionist looked at her with a bored expression.

"Do you know which ward you need?" she asked, abruptly.

"Dangerous Dai Llewellyn Ward," replied Hermione. "For bites."

"Name of patient?"

"Prof..." Hermione stopped. "Severus Snape."

The witch gestured behind her, down a long corridor, not even looking at Hermione, for she was too busy scanning the pages of _Witch Weekly_ beneath the desk. "First floor, second door on the right."

"Thank you," said Hermione, wondering why on earth somebody would take a job working with the general public if they had all the social skills and charm of a cricket bat.

She headed down a long corridor, dimly lit by candles in bubbles, charmed to hover near the ceiling, and tried to make sense of her thoughts. What was she going to say to him? Memories flashed into her mind, random snapshots of her years at Hogwarts, that saw Snape snarling at her for writing too much on her homework, for her Shrinking Solution being merely 'passable', making a cutting comment about her teeth, and...ah, that was right, 'being an insufferable know-it-all.' He'd had her in tears more times than she cared to recall, and yet, she was going to visit him and beg his forgiveness for something that, on the face of it, wasn't really her fault. She hadn't set the serpent on him.

She stopped and leant back against the wall, the cool oak panelling a welcome sensation on her warm skin, and took a deep breath. She wouldn't get anywhere with Snape if she got emotional. She could imagine him sneering at her about silly Gryffindors who wore their hearts on their sleeves, and pressed her lips together firmly. She wasn't going to give him any excuse to berate her. She just wanted to apologise, then carry on with her life; hopefully a life without nightmares.

She made her way up a flight of stairs, and then along the corridor until she reached a door which had a sign reading: 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites. Hauling herself together with steely composure, she pushed open the door and stepped into the ward.

She saw him without having to look too hard; his black hair contrasted starkly with the white cotton of his pillow, and there was no mistaking his crooked nose, or his long fingers curling around his sheets. She gasped at the sight of him and clasped her hand to her mouth; she had never expected to see him alive again.

Daring to step closer, she could see the extent of his injuries; a bandage covered the main bite to his neck, but she could see the faint outline of the Dark Mark on the pale skin of his forearm, and slashes to his upper arms.

"Didn't your mother tell you that it's rude to stare?"

Hermione gasped at hearing the familiar voice; the deep, silky tones, slightly husky from what she assumed was the bite, stirred reminiscence inside her, and she swallowed.

"I've come to see you," she said, timidly.

His eyelids flickered open fully, revealing his glittering black eyes. "Evidently."

"Can I sit down?" she ventured, gesturing to the seat next to his bed.

He merely rolled his eyes, and Hermione took it as a non-verbal communication of 'please yourself'. She sat down on the chair, carefully putting her handbag beneath it.

"How are you?" she asked tentatively.

He arched an eyebrow at her in disbelief. "Absolutely wonderful, Miss Granger. On top of the world."

Hermione glanced away in exasperation. Really, what had she expected? Sipping coffee and exchanging pleasantries?

"You look it," she shot back, opting to play him at his own game.

He said nothing, merely surveyed the ceiling, his thin hands clasped together.

"How's your treatment going?" she persisted, determined not to make it easy for him.

"As well as can be expected."

"And the Healers are confident that you'll make a full recovery?"

"So they say."

Hermione sighed inwardly. This exchange was pointless; she could have assumed the information he'd given her, given that his death had not been announced in the _Daily Prophet_.

"So."

Hermione turned back to him, where he surveyed her with slight suspicion. "Mmm?"

He gestured to the window, where sunlight streamed in. "It's a pleasant day. You have finished your studies. Might I ask why you have chosen to inflict yourself upon me rather than do something entirely more pleasurable?"

Hermione paused; part of her was furious. She was hardly 'inflicting' herself upon him; she assumed that he might want a visitor. But part of her conceded that really, he should know why she was here.

"Well, it's about...that night," she said, unsteadily.

He said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows, her cue to continue.

"In the Shack...when..." she swallowed, "when the snake bit you..."

"Ah, yes," he said, softly. "Ringside seats, Miss Granger...many would have killed for such a view."

She ignored him; clearly he was trying to make her rise to the bait...nothing had really changed since school...

"We left the Shack and returned to Hogwarts," she continued, "and...I didn't raise the alarm," she said, softly.

"And what alarm would that be?"

"That you were injured. That...that you were dying."

He said nothing, merely regarded her impassively. Seconds of awkward silence slid by, in which Hermione wished he would say something. Anything. She didn't even think she'd mind if he shouted.

"So...I suppose I'm sorry," she said, in a small voice.

"Sorry." The word fell into the silence like a stone dropping into an abyss, and Hermione glanced up at him uncertainly. He snorted. "You're _sorry_?"

Hermione stared at him, her thoughts tumbling around in a whirl of confusion; she hadn't expected this reaction. "Well, yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

He laughed mirthlessly, his eyes cold with malice. "I assumed you would have been glad of the excuse for a party. Like you said, you ah..._failed to raise the alarm_. Understandably, seeing as I made your pretty little Potter's life so difficult. I suppose it was a double celebration really, was it not?"

"He's not my pretty little Potter," said Hermione, trembling. "And we celebrated Voldemort's death, not yours."

He smirked; again, the expression failed to reach his eyes. "It's quite hard to celebrate someone's death when they are in fact, still alive, Miss Granger."

"Don't be so bloody facetious," snapped Hermione, feeling bitterness and anger surging through her. How dare he treat her like this, after what it had cost her to come to him?

"Facetious?" His voice was a soft hiss on the air; dangerous. She recognised it as such. "I knew the risks of turning traitor. I had come to accept death as inevitable. I didn't want thanks and adulation, unlike Potter, who seeks glorification almost as much as his father did."

"You really do have a bee in your bonnet about that," hissed Hermione, viciously. She stood up, trying to stop herself from shaking, so intense was her anger. "I came here to say sorry, and I've said it. I know what you did and why you did it, and I thought you deserved an apology. Clearly, I was wrong."

"Clearly."

She turned on her heel, not trusting herself to speak, and left the hospital ward, closing the door with a snap.


End file.
